


A Man Chooses

by ChibiSquirt



Series: Switch-verse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bucky Barnes' Brooklyn Accent, F/M, Frankly that tag should be way more common, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sexy Margaritas, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7400125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7024537">Neither Independent Nor Serious,</a> Steve has to make a choice about how to handle this new version of his old friend.  Of course, Bucky has his own ideas about how he'd like to be handled...</p><p>COMPLETE<br/>PORNY</p><p>(But not completely porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Chooses

**Author's Note:**

> **This story follows immediately after the preceding story in the series, and while it will largely make sense without that one, it makes more if you've read it.** (Also, if you haven't read it, you'll ruin the twist ending by reading this one first. :P )
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Stop reading now if you find TW's spoilery (I do!) I'm pretty bad at spotting triggers, but here were the ones I came up with.
> 
> \- Barnes has some body issues: he’s neither comfortable with nor happy about his new status as an Omega (not that new, but all of his previous heats were in isolation or while under HYDRA, so… bad things), and has some fairly derogatory views about his… gender identity? Sexuality? I’m not sure what we call it with A/B/O, but if you’re triggered by het/binary reductionism, this might be a fic you want to avoid.  
> \- Sudden unexpected violence, lovingly delivered.  
> \- While everyone's consent is as consenty as I could make it, this is an A/B/O Heat!fic. They're alright with it, but you might not be. YMMV.
> 
> And, while this isn't triggering (that I know of, but like I say, I'm bad at that), I feel I should make a special note: I thought about characters using condoms in this - and you just KNOW one of 'em has some with them - but Omegas can't conceive in this worldverse, and neither can Nat, and everybody has serum so no one can get sick, and I sort of think none of them would bother in this situation. But if it *were* an A/B/O setting where O's could conceive, you bet your bippy they *would* be using condoms. Just to reassure you all.

“Tony,” the blond man _(Steve,_ a small, excited part of my mind reminds me) pleads, “Tell me what you want me to do, here.”  He looks hilariously panicked, eyes round, mouth gaping, a tiny distressed wrinkle between his brows.  “He’s going into _Heat.”_

The _h_ _e_ in that sentence is me; I can feel the flush rising along my neck, and if I focus, I can pick out the musty scent of slick worming its way out of my clothes.  

It’s not “Tony” who answers, though, not unless _Tony_ is short for _Antoinette._  “Pick him up and get him in the air - throw him out the window, if you have to,” the woman on the blond man’s _(Steve’s)_ com orders, confident and decisive.  “Tony, you do the catch, then get him up here fast.  Steve, _warn_ him, first.”

“Bucky…”  

“I heard,” I growl.

The blond man _(Steve)_ hesitates, face twisted up like he’s in pain.  “Is this… _okay?”_

I lick my lips.  They’re dry - mostly due to water retention combined with loss of appetite in the days preceding the Heat, but just because I know what’s happening doesn’t mean I can stop it.  

Story of my life, right there.

“You said you were here to help,” I remind him, and he nods, uncertain.

I glare.  

“So _help,_ then,” I tell him, and he firms, unwrapping my legs from around his waist, picking me up princess-style and marching towards the window.  

“Get ready,” he says, putting his shoulder through my window, shield-first.  “Tony, you, too.”

“Got it,” a male voice answers from his com, and then I curl into a ball as I’m flying.

 

* * *

 

The robot (probably not actually a robot) dumps me in the rear hatch of a plane, and I roll into a crouch, facing a familiar-looking redhead.  “Go get Steve,” she orders the robot without looking away from me.  “Take as much time as you need, and no more.  I’m taking off my com so you two idiots can talk.”  She smiles impishly (terrifyingly) as she pulls off the headset and places it next to the stick.

She also presses some buttons in the cockpit; it looks like she’s setting a course, before she turns and drops to her knees in front of me.  

Her gaze is patient, and I find myself relaxing, incrementally, letting my shoulders retreat from around my ears, and shifting from a wary crouch to a relatively more comfortable kneeling position.  Once I’m on my knees, I sit back, resting my ass on my heels, letting my head drop forward, and she reaches out and brushes my hair behind my ear.

My heart pulses sickly in my ears, slow and lazy, and I can feel my thoughts tilting hazily to the right.  The relaxation spreads, an instinctive response now that I’m not panicking as much - designed to prevent injury, but also a parasympathetic overload that, once upon a time, kept tribe members from tearing each other apart.

I look up, meeting her eyes.  They’re green like fresh grass, with a tiny ocean-blue rim around the outsides.  She’s… _probably_ not here to kill me.  <“James,”> she says in Russian, <“How far gone are you?”>

<“Far enough,”> I answer, voice low.  <“Far enough it’s getting hard to focus.”>

If anything, her eyes look even sadder at that, and I glance away.  She reaches out, takes my flesh hand in both of hers.  <“If I could give you a choice, would you want me to bother?”> she asks, and there’s something under there, some hint of resentment.  I look up, asking the question with my eyes, and her gaze flicks downward, then back up, unapologetic.  < “You’ve spent a long time letting others think for you,”> she says like a challenge.  

Fuck you.

<“Yes, I would want the option,”> I say, snarling through gritted teeth.  

She smiles with her eyes, saying, <“Good.”>  

She dislocates my pinky.  

I grunt, but I don’t scream; I can hang on to that much, at least.  The Heat, which had been rising around my ears like a tide, swirling around me like a whirlpool made of castor oil, recedes, briefly overrun by pain.  

 _The pinky is the finger least used in everyday activities,_ I think clinically.   _Also the easiest to set.  A dislocation is the easiest type of break to repair._

The conclusion is obvious:  the redhead is being kind.  

I know what she is - every movement reveals what she was trained to be - and this, too, I know: by Widow standards, this is positively generous.  

“Well,” she says in English.  “Do you think you could say no now?”

I swallow, and nod tentatively.  Then, feeling myself adjust to the angry siren blaring from my hand, I change my mind, reluctantly shaking my head.  The pain is fading too fast...

She breaks the ring finger next, raising her eyebrows.  The red flare of agony surges again, and I nod this time without hesitation.  It’ll last long enough to make a decision.

“So: Listen.  You’re going to have a Heat - we can't stop biology - but you don’t have to have it with Steve.  He’s handy, and he’s willing, but…”  She tips her head to the side.  “Tony, Steve’s -”  Infinitesimal hesitation. “- boyfriend - the one in the Iron Man suit?  He’s an Alpha, too.  Or…”  She shrugs one shoulder, indifference plain on her face (which, since she’s a Widow, means it isn’t real).  “...we have half a dozen weapons and tools on this bird which can be made into dildos in a pinch.”  

She pokes me in the hand, right where the swelling is already beginning at the base of my pinky.  

Hurts like a bitch, to be honest, but that's okay.  

Does what it needs to do, doesn't it?

<“You have a choice, in this moment.  It’s up to you, now, to make it.”>  She looks over my shoulder.  “Just in time, boys,” she says, and stands, crossing her arms.  

She looks at the blond man _(Steve)._  “You - in or out?”

“He can’t _consent,_ Nat, he’s too far gone.”  The blond man sounds miserable as he swings the shield which sends echoes through me into a locker on the side of the plane.  The robot folds its arms, studying the scene in front of it, saying nothing.

“Not right now, he isn’t.”  She looks at me critically, and I think about smiling at her.  It’s close enough that she sees it.  Her eyes flick back up.  “So are you in, or out?”

“I…  does he _want_ me in?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t asked him yet...”  Her clever head tilts to the side, silky red locks falling against the alabaster column of her neck.  I want to touch them…  

Well.  I want a lot of things, right now.  More with every passing second.

“...I’m asking _you,_ first.”  The added _dumbass_ remains unspoken, but still heard by all of us, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her already.

I can _hear_ the blond man _(Steve!_ my mind insists) swallow, even from where I’m at.  “In,” he folds, answering with a voice so husky, it sounds like he’s got broken glass in his throat.  “Always.  I…  I’m in.”  

“Stark?”

The robot unfolds his arms, shaking his head.  “Jesus.  Yeah, sure, I - no.  Wait, _no_ , I need to call Pep.”  

What the fuck is a Pep?

“Do it,” the Widow orders, and the robot guy turns away, towards the rear wall of the jet.  

The redhead crouches in front of me again, raising her hand to brush my hair back again.  I tuck my hand protectively behind me, and she laughs at the joke with the corners of her eyes and mouth.  “Barnes, how’s your hand?” she asks, voice patient.

“Hurts,” I report, adding, “Once reduced, will likely return to full functionality in approximately two hours.”  

She nods, and waits.

“I’ve got about five minutes of coherence,” I say, more bitter than I really intend to be.

“That should be enough,” she says, voice gentle.  “Do you remember Steve?”

I shake my head.  “Yes,” I say.

She frowns, looking over my shoulder; whatever she sees there, she looks back at me unsatisfied.  “Elaborate,” she orders.

I cut my eyes to the side.  “There are…”  I try to look up at her again, but her green eyes are intense, too sharp for this.  I twist to look at the blond man - Steve - instead, but his face, if possible, is even more intense than the redhead’s, all trembling lip and tragic eyes and aching heart.  

I cut my gaze back to the floor.  

“I remember hearing about him.  Reading about, seeing video.  There was a briefing, before the mission, and after - I researched.”  My lips would have been dry anyway, from the heat - it gives away nothing to use my tongue to moisten them.  “You ever have a song in your head, but it’s just the one phrase, and you can’t remember the rest of the song?  Not what line comes next, not even the next word?  But you _know_ you know the song...  ‘Slike that.”

A sound like a gut wound comes from behind me.  

I can’t look.

“I remember enough to know I should remember a lot more.”

She nods, thoughtfully, then meets my eyes again to be sure I understand.  “Do you consent for Steve Rogers to stand as Alpha during your Heat?” she asks, carefully formal.

Finally, an easy fuckin’ question.  “Yes,” I say immediately.

She breathes out steadily, a Widow’s version of sighing in relief.  

“Nat,” comes the blond’s voice (Steve’s voice) from behind me.  “He _can’t consent.”_

“He can,” she says grimly, meeting my eyes with a shared humor as black as burnt coffee.  “I hacked his system.”

A sharp sound like a headshake.  A _stubborn_ headshake, I think, feeling the warmth start at the base of my spine again - too soon, but not a threat, yet.  “He’s a human being, you _can’t -”_

“I _can,”_ she overrides him.  “I’ll tell you about it after.”  Her gaze cuts away from me, looking over my shoulder, and I realize that she’s meeting his _(Steve’s!)_ eyes.  “I promise.  For now… the consent is real.”

I nod my agreement, soberly.  “She broke my fingers,” I explain, the gratitude plain in my voice.  “Sympathetic response keeps the drop away for a few minutes.”  

I hear a small movement; presumably, the blond (Steve) has accepted it, and relaxed.

Then another movement, a more metallic clanking, draws my attention to the red robot man.  Even his voice is faintly robotic as he tells the man, “Pep says no.”  His tone is brusque - covering fear, I realize.   _What’s he afraid of?_  

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve tells him.  “This isn’t…  This isn’t anything we had planned for.”  Movement behind me - cloth sliding against metal, some sort of embrace between the Steve-person and the robot - and then Steve says, a smile in his voice, “Kiss me goodbye?”

 _“Yes,”_ says the robot eagerly, but -

 _“No,”_ says the redhead, much sharper and more authoritative.  Hilariously, all three of us freeze.  “Tony, keep your suit _on_ and _sealed._ Cap’s got reduced sensitivity from the Serum, but if you don’t use the air scrubbers on the suit, you’re not going to have a lot of choice about participating in the proceedings.”  Her voice is dark, hard to read, but I think there might be a hint of apology in it.   _What is she sorry for?  Not her fault I’ve got stupid biology…  Pretty sure it’s HYDRA’s fault, if we’re getting down to the brass tacks, and all._

A wet sound behind me, and then a (slightly horrible) robot laugh.  “I’ll be off, then,” says the robot, and I hear the plane’s back hatch open again.  

“That’s my cue, too,” says the redhead, standing.  “Pass me a ‘chute, Steve.  The ‘Jet is on course to land in Greenland - try not to mess with the controls, this time.”  

“Ha, ha,” mutters Steve.  “Nat, do you _promise -?”_ His breath is coming more rapidly, and, reduced sensitivity or not, he smells like arousal.  I can feel myself responding - to his Rut, to my own Heat - and I reduce the two fingers she has broken.  The resulting flash of pain as they settle back into their sockets clears my mind again, briefly chasing away the drugging tide of desire.

I have perhaps two more minutes of clear thinking.

The redhead moves her head so that the curls brush against her neck, again.  “I already answered that, Rogers.  Try to keep up.”  She moves to take the parachute from him, but stops after half a step.

My metal hand is clenched around her leg.  

“You stay,” I say, over the increasing volume of the pulse in my ears.

“Barnes…”  

Her voice is naturally husky.  That it’s cracking reveals nothing.

<“You _stay,” > _ I insist, and her knees buckle.  She reaches out, brushes my hair behind my ear again.  

She doesn’t close her eyes against pain at all.  The look in her eyes could easily be mere compassion.  When she speaks, her voice is very quiet, her question very formal:  “Do you consent for me to join your heat?”

I hold up my right hand, where the swelling surrounds the bases of the fourth and fifth fingers. _“Yes,”_ I say, enunciating perfectly and glaring.  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?”

The blond man _(Steve!)_ jumps, startled.

She looks me in the eye - on her knees, between me and him - facing away from the blond - it’s not a coincidence - until her expression returns to neutral.  Then she looks over her shoulder.  “Steve?  You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.  “Yeah, that’s fine, Nat.”  He gives the ghost of a laugh.  “Just don’t tell Sam, I think he’ll make a Captain America voodoo doll.”

“No,” her voice is carefully blank, “But Clint might.”  Idle speculation.

She’s fucking beautiful.  

I rise to my knees, reaching towards her, and she lets me pull her into a kiss.  

She tastes like bitter tea and cherry jam, and I wonder if she’s coordinated her taste to her colors.  Surely not.  She tastes like home, though, and it’s beautiful, even though, I remember, Russia isn’t actually my home.  

Still.  

She sighs, a little, when I break the kiss.  It’s not really loud enough for the blond to pick up, not over the sound of the rear hatch closing, and I realize I really have to kiss her again.

She presses into me, now, firm muscle with the soft give of femininity over it, easing towards me until her breasts brush against my chest.  It’s as much an invitation as anything, and my hands - one metal, one swollen - go to the zipper of her jumpsuit, pulling it open enough to bring her curves into the slightly-cool air of the plane.  

She sighs again, just a bare breath of a thing.

 _The flush is rising hard, now,_ I think.  That warm tide of mindlessness, of sensuality, distorts time, making it seem like an eternity that I mouth at her breasts, but only a second until I take a nipple in my mouth.  

Her exhale is hard and fast, now, and I smirk, just a little, at the concession.  <“Come on now, Widow,”> I say in Russian.  <“Come along for the ride, you can do it.”>

I feel a tentative hand on the back of my head; the blond man’s, Steve’s.  It pets through my hair -  grown too long, but somehow, over the last year, I’ve never felt the need to cut it.  It’s my turn to sigh; the petting feels good, feeding into the warm flush suffusing my spine.  

I shudder all over, almost happy, for once.  This is definitely going to be the best Heat I've ever had.  There's no comparison, no question of it.

<“Widow,”> I say, husky, and take her nipple in my mouth.  I watch, thrilled, as my shudder transfers to her.  

She jiggles with the movement, and it’s almost too beautiful to touch.  

“Nat,” says Steve behind me, and her eyelids flicker.   _Shut up, Steve,_ I think with an exasperation that feels old.   _Leave us like this, for a moment._  The rest of the urge will be erupting inside me again, soon enough.  

I raise my head again to cover her mouth with mine, raising my right hand to brush against her breasts with the thumb and first finger.  She kisses me back, the fullness of her lips, the pressure of her mouth familiar and comforting in the rising glow.  

(The dashboard lights have halos, now; it won’t be long.)  

I meet her eyes, and jerk my head towards the Steve, mouthing my question in one word.  She shakes her head without moving it, and I nod the same way.  

<“Widow,”> I ask, my head hanging towards her, <“Stay with me.”>

<“Yes,”> she promises, and scrapes her hands through my hair again, gathering it behind me.  She slips something off her wrists, and I feel the hair pull, a bit: a hair-tie.  This is another small kindness, one more little thing to make life easier, after this.  I kiss her again, grateful, and she jerks, crushing against me so that my eyes close against it.  

I turn around.  It’s time to face the blond man.

 _(Steve._ I remember -)

I can’t, I find, face him directly; the idea of looking him in the face - although I _have_ , I’ve done so before, I _know_ it  - is too potent, too threatening, to pursue.  Instead, I look at the floor of the plane, trusting in the cant of my head, the recurve of my mouth, the sway of my back - I know what I look like, I’m not _stupid._ They’ll do my speaking for me.

And my hair.  Pulled back, long, silky, one lock falling against my cheek - I feel a surge of gratitude towards the redhead - this will speak for me, too.  

I feel a hand - large, strong, long fingers, hitchhiker’s thumb - pulling my chin up, but my eyes dart away.  Steve makes a wounded noise.  

“Is it alright if I kiss you?” he asks, and his voice...

His voice is...

I squeeze my eyes shut, and swallow.  This, too, is a form of compassion:  It’s obvious - _it’s_ so _obvious, Jesus, Steve_ \- that the blond man would like nothing better than to drown me in kisses for the rest of my days.  He is asking, anyway.

This is… kindness.  

“Bucky?”

He has asked me a question; I think about the answer.  Kisses from strangers, in the past, have been largely pain, biting and punishing...  The lead-in to other, worse things.

But.

_(Well, for one thing, the worse things are coming, kisses or not; I know what a heat is, for cryin’ out loud, and I know how much a knot can hurt if you want it to.)_

But also...

There is a _lot_ of kindness here, in this tin can hurtling through the sky towards fuckin’ Greenland.   _(What the hell is in Greenland?  Nothing.  Maybe that’s the point.)_  And I find - as I have before, again and again over the last few months - a desire, buried within me by my captors, almost to the point of extinction, to share the gentleness I find.  

So, “Yeah, you can kiss me,” I say, my breath quickening.  

Steve doesn’t kiss like the others do, I notice. _(I already knew that, though,_ I think.)  

He’s gentle.  Sweet.  

 _Romantic,_ a voice whispers to me, and I almost giggle, because really, what the fuck use is that to me?

But then, a minute later, I’m glad I _didn’t_ giggle, because when Steve presses softly against me, lips firm but not harsh, plump but not moist, his huge _(Alpha,_ I think ironically) hand brushing, oh-so-gently, against the sensitive place directly in front of my ear...

I’d love to say I shudder, but truth is, it’s a shiver.  Girly fuckin’ move, Barnes, what are you gonna do next, whimper?

“Open your eyes,” he whispers, and I do (‘cause I’m an idiot).  

His eyes are very, very, blue, and very full of things that don’t have any place in a Heat between two strangers.

Yeah, that was a whimper.  

 _“God,_ Buck…”  His thumbs press harder into those spots, one on each side of my ear, and he kisses me deeper, still all romantic-like, sucking on my tongue like I’m a girl, and I start spasming with pleasure.  I make a sort of full-body thrash, and when it’s done, my knees are up, splayed on each side of him _,_ falling to either side; the backs of my wrists - one flesh, one metal - are pressing into the backs of my thighs, and my back is pressed against the soft roundness of the redhead’s breasts.  

I whimper again.   _So_ embarrassing.

The redhead presses a kiss to the side of my neck, though, and Steve says, “Buck, you sound so _good,”_ so I guess they don’t see it as a problem.  

The redhead’s hands press their way down my chest, stopping briefly to pinch a nipple - I thrash again, humiliating, ugh - and then pushing my shirt up, pulling it over my head, pushing it down the arms that I’m not - quite - able to lift off of my thighs.  

I risk a glance over my shoulder.  (I can’t see the lights of the dash at all, now; they’re one big, glowy blur.)  I choke on air, breathing faster now, breathing _too_ fast -

“It’s okay, Bucky,” Steve says, the baritenor notes of his voice cutting through my panic, the warmth of his hands returning to the sides of my face, holding me still.

<“Widow, help me!”>

The redhead whispers behind me, <“You’re doing well, Soldier, you’re safe.  Don’t panic,”> as she winds her fingers in my hair, runs the other hand down my stomach.  

Her left hand clenches, pulling my head back; her right hand pops the button of my jeans.

I _whine._

Oh, God, it’s the worst noise I coulda made, what _was_ that -

But Steve seems fine with it, making his own noise in the back of his throat, this one a heartbroken, adoring sound - maybe I’m cute or somethin’.  And Natalia seems fine with it, wrapping her legs _(fuckin’ delicious legs)_ around my hips.  She digs her toes into the waist of my jeans, a little, and Steve gets the point, running his hands down my chest on his way to pull them off.

I buck again, because fuck my biology, of course I do.  

As soon as the jeans are off, the smell hits us.  I moan - because, again, _of course I do -_ but at least this time I’m not alone: Steve and Natalia are moaning, too.  Can’t blame ‘em; I smell _good,_ sweet and musky and citrusy, like an arousal margarita.  

The Natalia’s hand tightens in my hair almost enough to be painful, but my head just goes _all_ the way back, so that Steve can see the entire line of my throat.

He growls, and scrapes his teeth down it.  

 _“Fuck,_ Steve, what the fuck’re you waitin’ for?” I yelp, and he gasps, head coming up to regard me with wide, stricken _(fascinated)_ blue eyes.  

Now the _Widow_ growls, pulling harder at my hair so that I whimper again and go nonverbal.  Between the ever-rising tide of my Heat and the Rut Steve’s gotta be putting out, I figure that’ll be the last thing I get to say during this; at least I made it a good one.

The Widow shimmies behind me, her knees rising from my hips, to my waist, to my chest, and then she curls over me so that her breasts are in front my mouth.  I lean up and nip at ‘em, and god, they’re just as amazing at the look in her tac’ uniform.  Soft like fuckin’ silk, and I still want to wrap her hair around my dick.   _So soft,_ I think and they both growl, and that’s the first I know that I’m not actually non-verbal yet, just out of fuckin’ control.

Steve wraps his hands around my shins, pushing up, and drops his head to mouth at my dick.  God, it feels amazing, I think - and probably say, babbling, since he gives this massive wolf-like groan right after - so good, Steve, just - Jesus, like heat and and suction and heaven wrapped around my dick, and all of it with that pretty, pretty mouth, those soulful blue eyes, Jesus, Steve, don’t you know those aren’t fair?

Natalia whimpers, a heartbroken sound, and I try to switch it to Russian for her.  Got no filter, but I can _think_ in Russian, can’t I?

She’s fire and passion and fierceness around me, and her breasts are amazing, fantastic, wonderful, heavenly, perfect, angelic -

<“That’s enough,”> she says, a laugh in her voice.

\- but any idiot who _just_ looks at her breasts is missing at least half the glory of her, no, more than the glory, because she’s got a trim little waist that I could probably close my hands around...

<“You can.”>

...and the most perfect globe of an ass, it’s not fair, having an ass like that around a man like me, because she has to know that all I want to do is bite it -

<“Let go, now, James.  Go on, let go -”>

At her order, I come down Steve’s throat with a choked off cry.

He doesn’t hesitate, swallowing around me until I’m too sensitive.  Then he’s pulling back and shoving me up a little further.  

<“Widow, please,”> I plead again, knowing instinctively what’s going to happen next, and she puts a nipple in my mouth from where she’s lying curled around me.  I suck and bite and toy with it and kiss it, and she switches me to the other breast and back again, but none of it is enough to distract me from what Steve’s doing…

...which feels incredible, God, so fucking _intimate,_ his warm, full mouth on my hole, working into me, working me open, spreading the slick _everywhere -_ I know if _(when)_ he kisses me again, it’ll be all over his face, and that’s just - and then he slips in two fingers at once, _easily,_ and my stomach clenches instinctively to keep me from thrashing again, and the redhead leans her hands on my shoulders and puts all her weight into ‘em to keep me still.  

My knees are next to her elbows, which are around my ears, and God, I’ve gotta be lookin’ so stupid, but Steve doesn’t mind, he just _goes_ for it, two fingers pumping in and out of me, then splitting, stretching me even though I’m already a loose just from the Heat.  Fuckin’ _kindness - again,_ who even _is_ this guy? - he’s opening me up so that it’ll hurt less.  I moan in response and throw my head from side to side, mouthing at Natalia again, letting the surge of syrupy mindlessness drown me.  

I start to lose time.

I mean, thank God, right?  That’s what _happens_ in a Heat - too much arousal, your brain goes off line - and the only reason I hadn’t lost it before this is I have pretty coherent Heats - but now it makes the time stretch funhouse-style again, so that it seems simultaneously like I’ve been lying here for _hours_  with Steve’s tongue in my ass, his fingers working me open - two, three - _four,_ Jesus, I think you can just stick it in me there, buddy - and, at the same time, like it’s gone too fast to catch.

Another breath _(eternity)_ later, and he’s sliding in, the head of him stretching me, just a little, even after four long, strong _(artist’s)_ fingers, then advancing, a long, slow descent into madness, but I know, I _know,_ we’re almost there - almost to that moment of clarity, where everything goes quiet - and I can’t fuckin’ _wait._

“Alpha,” I mutter, and his head comes up again, eyes wide.

Geez, you gonna react that way every time I say somethin’, buddy?

“Steve, _fuckin’ do it!”_ I goad, and he thrusts so hard into me that my eyes roll back in my head.

“Easy, Steve,” says Natalia sharply, and he looks up, meeting her eyes with a blue gaze that fuckin’ _burns like ice._ He takes one hand off me long enough to drag her into a kiss, and it’s the kinda kiss _I_ woulda expected to get, all teeth and frustration.  After, she smiles at him just as sharp, but when she leans down to kiss me, her mouth is just as gentle as his was for me.

He looks a little ashamed of himself, and slides in again, long and hard and steady but not as rough as it was before.  I moan again, but y'know, I’m pretty okay with that one.   _Anybody_ woulda moaned just then.   _Stalin_ woulda moaned just then.

“Steve, don’t stop,” says the redhead.  She’s watching my face, keeping an eye on me.  I realize I’ve been neglecting the lovely tits hangin’ in front of me, and I give one of ‘em a little lick, but oh, look, Stevie just thrust again, looks like I’m not thinkin’ again for a while.

He gets a rhythm going, steady and firm, and I relax into the warm golden glow of it, mouthing at Natalia’s thighs, breasts - at one point, suckling her fingers.  I lose track of - everything, just of _everything,_ what I’m saying, what language I’m saying it in, what my own face looks like - all of it just goes away in the face of blue and green eyes, soft skin, smooth slide, and pressure, endless pressure, holding me open, keeping me laid bare.  

The acceleration, when it comes, is subtle, so subtle that I almost don’t notice it, except that I’ve been breathing in rhythm, and my girly fuckin’ _gasps_ speed up.

Well, be fair:  It’s not just me.  I mean, the Widow is making some fabulous fuckin’ noises above me, and she’s _definitely_ not girly.  

Same with Steve, if it comes to that.  

But the acceleration, it does something to me, makes me focus in, bear down - I start to thrash, and Natalia pins me again, this time flat-out kneeling on my shoulders - I spasm, twisting my hips in Steve’s grip, and he pulls me in, hard, until I still again.

Oh.

_Oh._

Okay, so... not _still,_ exactly...

His strokes now are smaller, probably to keep the added girth of the knot from tearing me; fine little movements which, nevertheless, send something exploding behind my eyes like a mortar.  It aches, but it feels good, too, all at the same time, and I moan with all the _sensation._ It’s fucking _thickening inside me._  I moan again - his _name, Jesus_ that’s embarrassing - and he looks just _gutted_ as he hits home one last time.  

I’m _so full,_ and I’m out of my mind with the pleasure, the pain, the emotionless joy, the languor…  I’ve probably come three times by now, but I can’t remember a one of ‘em.  I just lie there, panting, paralyzed, and the Widow ghosts a hand over my brow as my thoughts skitter like grasshoppers.  

Or cicadas.  Moving fast, and it kind of feels like seventeen years pass between ‘em.

...Considering how fast it goes, the plane has almost no wind-noise, and the silence feels... kind of _right,_ somehow.  

The floor underneath me has these little bumps on it, probably for better traction, but you just _know_ they’re going to leave a pattern on my ass.  And shoulders, come to think of it, especially considering how hard Natalia’s knees are pressing.  

I bet she’s still armed.  Yeah, I can count two knives and a little snub-nose revolver from here.  

Steve’s face is amazing:  pain, and joy, and…

_Love?  Jesus, for me?  What the hell…_

...and the same sort of post-Heat bliss that I’m experiencing, all mixed into one terrifyingly raw expression.  

...My legs are cramping.

It’s this last one that gets me to move, trying to swing my legs down - but of course Steve’s in the way, because he’s _giant_ now.  I shove at his shoulder, just a baby version of a push, and he wakes up a little, looking down at me in concern.

“Legs,” I say, bumping the right one into him.  “Move.”

His concern becomes significantly more sarcastic.  “Kinda still locked together here, Buck.”

I groan, and push harder.  “Sit _up,”_ I tell him, and then, when he leans back as much as he can, I swing my right leg over on top of my left, so that it’s like I’m sitting in his lap, only sideways.  It pulls, a little bit, but he says, “Oh,” and scoots in, so that fixes that.  

I look up at Natalia with a hopeful smile, and she rolls her eyes and scoots off my shoulders, curling up, little-spoon-style, in front of me.  I nose at her curls and at the base of her neck, a soft, happy feeling pulling at my face.

“You’re going to get my hair in your mouth,” she tells me, voice bone-dry.

<“Most beautiful thing I’ll ever have in my mouth, then.”>  I yawn, snuggling closer to her, and drift off to sleep, surrounded by contentment and the smells of cherries and tea, Kevlar, and sex.

 

* * *

 

The first time I wake up, the golden man - ah, fuck it, _Steve_ \- is snoring lightly into my hair.  The redhead _(Natalia)_ is awake, watching me with eyes half-lidded like a cat’s, and that suits me just fine.  

I wriggle forward a little - a hint of discomfort as Steve’s dick slips out of me, knot now deflated - and kiss her, gently like a lady like her should be kissed, deeply like I’ve been wanting to this whole time.  <“You okay?”> I check in, as the faint wind-noise of the jet whooshes around us.  

<“Who, me?”> she asks, faux-flippantly.  <“I’m fine.”>  She runs her hand across my forehead like she’s brushing back hair, but she can’t be, because she’s already pulled it all back with her only hair-tie.  

Dishevelled looks _great_ on her, by the way.  

<“How are _you_ doing?”> she asks, eyes only a little concerned, really.

“Fine,” I say in English, smiling crookedly.  It’s close enough.

She nods, and kisses me.  

I lean into it, into _her,_ with her dark-sweet smell, and her ivory skin, her cinnamon-colored hair.  “Natalia.”  

I ghost my hand down her side.  

 _She has curves like a fuckin’ river,_ I think worshipfully.

She helps me pulls her jumpsuit down over her arms, past her hips…. we both stop when we realize she’s still wearing her boots.  “Look at us,” I huff, feeling ridiculous, and she rolls her eyes back at me, smiling quietly.  

Then she takes her boots off, and I follow the jumpsuit down with my mouth, biting her thighs, licking at her shins, nipping her calves, even suckling her toes, which is way more fun than I expected it to be, to be honest.  She moans playfully down at me, and then, eyes narrowed, parts her knees.  

I take her up on the invitation - of course I do, I’m not _stupid_ \- licking into her with more enthusiasm than skill.  (I mean, I know better, but…   _Natalia,_ right?) So I go face-forward into her, then pull back and suck her outer lips, brush my fingers over her folds, circle her clit with one awe-touched index finger, then lean in and apply my mouth again.  She pants above me, and doesn’t pretend to feel more, or less, than she truly does.  

By the time I slide inside, she’s as relaxed as I am - still am, because let’s face it, my Heat still has about twenty-four more hours to go, which makes it real hard to get tensed - and she opens with merely a gasp.  I am definitely making more noise than she is, here - which, _typical._ I roll my eyes at myself in disgust.  

But god, she’s _perfect:_ strong thighs clench around my waist, and she bites my shoulder with the sharpest little teeth.  Fucking _magnificent._ She could kill me like this, and honestly, I’d be honored to go.  

I tell her that, in Russian.  She laughs delightedly, sounding drunk, and fucks me harder.  

It’s not until after I come - after _she’s_ come a _couple_ of times, I’m not _that_ big a jerk - that I look up and see Steve watching us.  He looks at peace, oddly settled, and I wonder if it’s because he really is calm, or if it’s just the lingering laziness of the Heat.  

I hope it’s the first one, I really do.

 _‘Sgonna be a bitch to deal with if it’s_ not, _for one thing..._

 

* * *

 

We all sleep a bit more after that - that’s how Heats tend to go, sleep and fuck and sleep and fuck and maybe eat something, then fuck again - and when I wake up, sure enough, Steve’s pressing an MRE into my hand.  It doesn’t exactly smell great, but hell, I’ve eaten worse things.  And a couple days of fasting make me hungry as hell now, so bottoms up, I guess.  

 _So to speak._  Ha.

I get through most of it - beef casserole which bears no resemblance to either beef or casserole, an electrolyte powder which turns into a beverage that is actually alright, crackers and “cheese spread” which I refuse to believe contains any actual cheese - but turn my nose up “dessert” they’ve included.  Steve nods acceptance and, checking that Natalia’s still asleep, puts it away himself.

“Well, now I’m definitely not gonna kiss you,” I mutter, and he stares.

Snorts.

Giggles.

Oh my god, he _fucking giggles,_ like a twelve year old _schoolgirl,_ and I get this mental image of him in pigtails and a pleated skirt, and then _I’m_ going, too.  “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” I gasp, holding my sides, and if I don’t know which of us I’m asking, well, par for the fuckin’ course.  

Natalia wakes, eyes us through with an alligator-sliver of a glance, then gives up on our idiot selves and prepares to go back to sleep.

“What the fuck is wrong with _me?”_ Steve hoots, bracing himself on the jet floor as the pressure change around me clues me in that we’re landing.  “Well whatever it is, I’m better off than _you_ are!”  

It’s black humor at its finest, and I actually _bruise my ass_ falling over ‘cause I’m laughing too hard.  

Better off than I am…  

Yeah, that’s the fuckin’ truth, ain’t it?

So there we are, gasping and holding our aching diaphragms, still all languid with hormone whammy, and meanwhile the pressure is building around us as we settle into our descent over - “Hey, Widow,” I call, bending backwards mostly for the stretch of it, arms still wrapped around my core, “We really landing in Greenland?”

She sighs like I’ve disappointed her.  “It’s relatively unpopulated, friendly territory, easily within reach of reinforcements or medical aid if necessary.  Yes, we’re landing in Greenland.”

I raise my eyebrows, which, since I’m tipping my head back over my heels and letting my hair - loosened after two rounds of enthusiastic sex and as many naps - tickle the pads of my feet, means that actually my eyebrows sink, bobbing down towards the floor of the jet.  “Easy reach of reinforcements?” I question.

“Tony’s got the Iron Man suit; Rhodey has War Machine.”  She shrugs, a horizontal movement of shoulders against the metal flooring.  “They both can move quickly if necessary.”

I think about it.  “But it’s not necessary,” I finally finish for her.

“Lucky us,” she agrees, voice ambiguous.

Around us, the engines whine extra hard on the landing, and then the whole jet goes quiet.  I lever myself upright, then fold forward at the waist instead of backwards, resting my weight on my elbows and my chin on my hands like the girls at the soda shops, hair falling around my face and neck in a distinctly bed-headed way.  “Hey, Steve.  Wanna fuck me?”

Steve sits up so fast he bangs his head on one of the low benches on the side of the jet.   _“Jesus,_ Bucky,” he says, staring at me with wide eyes.  

I grin, and it feels… old… on my face.  Like maybe I haven’t used that particular smile in a long, long time.  “Helped before,” I shrug at him, then add, batting my eyelashes a little meanly, “You _did_ say you were here to help, right?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, and he growls...

...then pounces.

 

* * *

 

I got no luck, fuck it all.  They’re arguing when I wake up next.

“How could you not tell me, Nat?  You knew what we were facing, you knew the _difference_ it could make -”

“Because it couldn’t make a difference!  The man you knew -”

Oh.

_Bad form, Natalia.  Doesn’t work like that with Steve._

I reach behind me, between my legs, to where my slick and his semen are mingling in a slow seep - still an arousal margarita, but with salt on the rim.  I coat my fingers in the mix - gross, by the way - then bring my hand forward, fingers spread, unnoticed in the transient fury of their squabble.

“I might have changed what I did!”

“What, would it have made you less inclined to idiotically throw your shield away?  Any more inclined to watch your own back?  Tell me, Steve, can you _honestly_ say that you had a _better_ shot of being here now if you’d known?”

“You can’t know what effect it woulda had on my chances,” Steve insists.  “For all you knew, you were withholding information that - information -”  His voice falters, then breaks of entirely, as his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate.  

The Widow can pretend she’s immune to the effect, but I can watch her breathing get shallow, and I see it when her tongue darts out to moisten her lower lip.  

I almost let my filthy hand drop, then, getting a better idea, raise it to my mouth and start licking the (weirdly tasty, but still fucking _disgusting)_ mess off of it.  “So,” I ask, voice dark with promise, smirking slightly, “Who’s first?”

Steve pounces, again.  

Definitely going to have ass-bruises at this rate, that’s for sure.

 

* * *

 

My heat wears off around sunrise the next day, and we celebrate by putting on clothes and staggering out into the chilly morning air.  A dry breeze ripples past us, but it’s not worse than a spring morning back in Brooklyn was - or, for that matter, a spring morning in Bucharest - and I tip my head up to it, enjoying the way it plays with my hair.

 _Well, whaddya know.  Turns out that shit_ is _good for something besides lookin’ sexy._

Maybe I won’t cut it off the first chance I get, after all.

Steve stretches his ridiculously long arms in the morning sunlight; the Widow puts her hands at the small of her back and presses.  I kind of want to take over for her, but without the surrealism of the Heat, I find I’m not quite so able to reach out.

Touch might not be a language I speak more than once a month, for a while.

There’s an enormous rock looking out over a little lake, not too far away even considering how clear the air is here, and I set out for it.  I’m not marching, but I am sorta ambling quickly.  Steve and Natalia only pause a little before following after me.  

I scoop up a couple handfuls of rocks, piling them in a hamper made of the bottom of my t-shirt, although it leaves my stomach exposed to the cool morning air.  The rocks and I mount the boulder, settling in with my legs stretched out in front of me.

And yeah, the ass-bruises are definitely there.  Thanks for that, Rogers.

Steve settles on my right, Natalia on my left, both of them watching me with hilariously wary expressions as I pick through the stones.  I look up at Steve…

“You might want to move back some.”

...and toss one particularly nice flat one up and down in my hand like a juggler, then pull back and send it winging over the little lake.  

Four skips.  Not bad.

The next one gets five.

“May I?”  Steve nods at the stones deferentially, but I ain’t fooled.  Both memory and intuition tell me Steve is a competitive little shit.  

“Sure,” I say, and give him the worst stone I can find without seeming to look.

Four skips.  

 _Suck it, Rogers,_ I think in satisfaction.

“So what happens now?” Steve asks.

“Well, if you keep your arm flat when you throw it, you might make it to five,” I suggest, deliberately misunderstanding.

He gives me a disgruntled look.  “Thanks, Buck, that’s very helpful,” he says, his voice as flat as his arm should be.  

The next stone he throws only gets four again, but it makes it to the opposite shore, so I figure I can’t give him too much grief about that one.

“Say what you mean, then.”

“I mean -”  Three skips, sinks in the middle of the lake.  “- What happens between us?  I know before, we were…”  He shakes his head, not looking away from the point on the other shore that that one rock had landed.  Nothing special about that point, but it beats looking at me, I guess.

I give him the hairy eyeball.  “...Friends?” I prompt.

Well, now I’ve got his attention, again.

“Comrades?  Brothers in arms?”

“No,” Steve starts, frustrated, but I cut him off.

“Oh, we _weren’t?  That’s_ weird.  ‘Cause I got back a lot of my past over the last couple days, and that’s pretty much _all over_  those memories.”  

Back to looking at that one far stone.  “Oh,” Steve says, his voice small.

I snort.  “You’re a dumbass,” I inform him.

He doesn’t try to argue, thank heavens, but, “We were lovers, too,” he says instead, not looking at me because apparently I’m fucking _painful_ now, looking instead at the pattern his wet boots make on the boulder.

“Sure,” I agree.  “But we were something else, first.”

His head snaps around - fucking _finally -_ and a smile ghosts over his mouth.  “Yeah, we were,” he admits softly.  

My turn to look away; this next part is hard.  

I guard the stones in my shirt carefully as I lean back on the metal arm and look up at the sky.  “HYDRA’s full of sexist assholes,” I start out.

Natalia snorts her agreement from my left, and I just _know_ she’s got some doozy-stories.

Steve just watches me watch the clouds with a gentle, patient listening expression I can see in my peripherals.  

_Jesus._

“They don’t like to promote Omegas too much - I mean, or women, but seriously, women before O’s.”

They both nod - they’d seen that, probably on that STRIKE team that turned out not to be full of their friends, after all.  Eleven men, one woman, no Omegas, and all of ‘em had stabbed Steve and Natalia in their backs.  

Metaphorically, and possibly also literally - things get a bit fuzzy around the time of that last mission.

“So a lot of my handlers were Alphas,” I manage to tell that one cloud that looks like a frog crouching on a lilypad.

“Buck,” Steve says, and makes a little movement towards me like he wants to grab my arm.  

So yeah, he got it.

I jerk my right arm away, over my body, instinctively, and he pulls back, looking gut-punched.

We all practice our breathing for a few seconds.  It’s a good technique to have, as a sniper; keeps your hands steadier.

Also other reasons.

I’ve gotta be the one to break the silence, of course, and after no more than two minutes, I do:  “It’s different, during a Heat.”

Steve swallows.  “How so?” he asks.

I shrug.  “A lot of this stuff…  It’s all surface.  And it seems real - I can’t tell the difference, mostly - but it’s not, it’s surface, and underneath that there’s…”  My hands swirl in the dry air.  “...there’s the rest of me.”  

I lick my lips.

“You ever try to clean a stove with vodka?” I ask, looking over at him.

He shakes his head, confused by the change in topic.  “They make all these fancy cleaning solutions now…”

I shrug.  “Yeah, sure, that’ll work.  So say you’ve got a good cleaner - like, oh, bleach and somethin’ else, right?”

He nods.

“And you spray down all this crusted-on crap on the surface of the stove - electric, not gas, don’t spray vodka on a gas stove -”

Natalia is laughing at me.

“- and then you let it sit for a minute, right?”

“Only if he gets distracted,” Natalia puts in, her voice dry, the Widow-version of a laugh.  

 _“Thanks,_ Nat.”

“No problem.”  Her smile isn’t a smirk because she’s the fucking Black Widow, but aside from that, her smile is _completely_ a smirk.

“So you leave it a minute,” I press on, “And when you come back to it, the stuff on the stove is all runny and wavery-looking, and you can just wipe it away with a towel?”

They both nod, so either they know what I’m talking about, or they’re willing to fake it.

“Well, that’s what the Heat does to surface-me, and everything else that’s left is something deeper.”  I sit back up a little, chucking a rock.

Four skips.   _Jesus, I’m slackin’, over here..._

Natalia bumps me with her shoulder.  “How much of the HYDRA brainwashing was surface stuff?” she asks, her voice gentle.

I sigh, and test out another stone.  “Not enough,” I say.  “But it’s a start.”

Five skips.   _Good enough._

Five skips.  I pick through for another stone.

Four.   _Fuck._

“I’m better than I was, anyway,” I add when neither of them says anything, tossing the next stone in my hand speculatively.  

Four skips.  I knew that piece of shit stone was no good.

“And the avoidance of Alphas?”  Steve’s voice is quiet, pained.

“Surface,” I say cautiously, “It goes away with the Heat…  But it’s like getting drunk and picking a fight with a guy twice your size, you’re not going to want to keep doin’ it once you sober up.”

They both look at me, frowning.

I sigh.  “What?”

“I am pretty sure you pick fights with big guys while sober,” Steve points out.

“No, that was _you.”_

“No, it’s _both_ of you,” Natalia snorts.

 _"Who_ have I fought who’s twice my size?” Steve demands of her.  

“You mean other than _all of the STRIKE team,_ a _Chitauri whale,_ and an _entire government organization_?” she asks scathingly.

“It’s not -”

“No, but a single guy, twice my size?”

“You two -”  

“He’d have to be a giant!  When did I fight a giant?” Steve asks indignantly.

“Don’t pick fights with giants!” I shout, flailing my arms at them.  “And anyway, _I_ don’t pick fights with _anybody!”_

“Well, _that’s_ not true,” Steve says snidely, and I have a sudden memory of a quarrel we’d had as teenagers, where he’d stuck his chin out and said the _exact same thing._

“You son of a bitch,” I sigh, just as I had done then, and Steve startles, then laughs, the first really _happy_ sound I’ve heard him make this whole time.  I have to grin, because I know we aren’t what we were - I _know_ that - but hearing him laugh like a kid again is still pretty damned good.

So, naturally, I push him into the lake.  

He comes up sputtering, furious and ready to take me on, but the Widow cuts him off:  “James is just coming off a Heat haze,” she calls down to the sopping wet mess of Captain America.  “He’s not up to the cold temperatures of that water.”

Then she winks at me.

“Neither am I!” Steve howls indignantly, but we can all see him tryin’ not to smile, so that’s one for our team.

I grin at him like a little shit, just because I can.

“James,” the Widow turns to me, and makes an elegant gesture in the direction of my lap as Steve slog out of the lake.  “May I?” she asks.

90% chance of skipping a rock, 10% chance of hand job; either way, I’m not gonna say no.

“Help yourself,” I say, leaning back to try to up it to 12%.

She picks up a rock and tosses it in a beautiful overhand shot into the middle of the water.

“Perfect,” she cheers, throwing her arms up like a champion.

“Natalia,” I say seriously.  “That was not perfect.”

She blinks at me.

“It didn’t even skip _once,”_ I insist.

She blinks at me again.  “Oh,” she says, sounding mildly surprised.  She tilts her head to the side, and I swear, I am never _not_ going to watch her hair brush her neck when she does that.  “Was it supposed to?” she asks, and then, leaving me and a freezing, soaking wet Steve gaping at her, she pats me on the head and starts walking back to the jet.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, so…”  Steve pauses and turns to me as we’re getting ready to depart the jet into this high-tech, ugly glass tower in the middle of mid-town.  I just _know_ this is the worst possible time for whatever this is.  “...are you saying I _fucked_ the brainwashing out of you?”

I roll my eyes _hard_ at that one.

 _“Yes,_ Steve,” I say sarcastically.  “You have a magic penis.  Every stroke was like the waving of a magic wand -”  

He rolls his eyes, and takes a slow, lazy roundhouse at me.

“- your _knot_ was like the _genie’s lamp,_ and every time it rubbed my prostate a _magical spirit_ entered me -”

“And here I thought that was jizz,” Natalia says meditatively.  

 _“Jeeze,_ you two -”

I trip him, and he bobbles the step for a second before recovering - damned acrobat - and shoving into me, his bulk sending me scooting across the ramp.

“I only needed the pulsing throb of your turgid…”  I duck a left jab, block a right uppercut with my metal hand, and give my own jab with the right, which he dodges.  “...Uh…”

“Wang?” Natalia suggests, hopping lightly out of my way, off the left side of the ramp and down next to a trimly-built man in a very nice suit.

“Right - _turgid wang,”_ I finish triumphantly, sweeping his legs out from under him.  He hits the floor of the ramp, but rolls over the right side onto his feet, so only partial victory.  Still, I march triumphantly down the center, the only one of us to get off the jet properly.

 _“You,”_ the man in the business suit greets me.  His voice is familiar, but I can’t place it, and his face is totally new.  “You’re an asshole, _and_ you got the Black Widow to say _wang.”_ He frowns.  “You’re making it very difficult for me to hate you,” he complains, glaring at me.

Be more effective if he were taller, honestly.

One step closer, and I can feel agitation taking hold of me, _fight or flight_ blaring in my mind.  An Alpha, then - that’s a pretty strong Fight pheromone he’s exuding.  

I breath in, slow and steady, through a slightly-parted mouth, to minimize the effects.  

“Right.  Who are you, again?”  I tilt my way in that bewildered, subtly-challenging way that had infuriated so many of my handlers.  Ain’t like he can do anything from within arm’s reach of the Widow, anyway.  

He doesn’t try, though, which, considering the Scent he’s putting out, is kind of a mark in his favor.  He holds out a hand, instead.  “Tony Stark.”  I take the hand, finally matching face to voice, and he shakes it, adding, “That’s my boyfriend you just spent the last thirty-six hours with.”

Okay, this guy is a world-class asshole _._

 _Let’s do this,_ I think.

“Yeah?”  I let my eyelids go half-mast, cant my hips a little.  “Your boyfriend’s got a great dick, then.”

Then I smirk at him.

His eyes narrow.  “Nice try, Captain Hook, but you’re not exactly my type.”  But he closes with me anyway, fisting his right hand in my hair and dragging my head back.  I let him - Widow’s _still_ within arm’s reach of both of us, so this isn’t going anywhere.

Still.  Talk about your mixed signals.

I narrow my own eyes right back at him.  “I ain’t exactly that kind of Omega,” I say, the angle of my neck forcing me to look down my nose at him.  “So _you_ ain’t exactly _my_ type, either.”

He lets me go, looking surprised enough that I’d almost be fooled, if only I hadn’t spent the last day and a half with a Widow.  “Why, I never,” he says, in the world’s _worst_ Southern accent.  Then he cuts it out and goes back to sounding New Yorker again:  “What makes you think that little display was for you?”

It only takes half a second to register, and then I practically pirouette, I turn so fast.  

First round to Stark:  He knows what gets his boyfriend hot.

I turn back.  “You’re an asshole,” I tell him, surprised and, just a little, impressed.

“True.”

“Nice to meetcha.  I hear you got a place for me to bunk up?”  

“Yeah, I’ve got a whole room prepared.  This way…”

 

* * *

 

It’s not that easy, of course - it couldn’t have been.  But we got off to an okay start.

**Author's Note:**

> PLOT SUMMARY OF THIS FIC:
> 
> Tony: *looks longingly at Steve*  
> Steve: *looks longingly at Bucky*  
> Bucky: *looks longingly at Natalia*  
> Natasha: *shrugs in Russian*
> 
> There is another fic to follow this one, plus a prequel (or two, depending on how well my humor-gears are working), but I was hoping to submit it for the Cap/Iron Man Big Bang? Maybe? If I can get it done? And there's interest???


End file.
